


Undue Diligence

by EternalEclipse



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical The Corruption Content (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Pining, So the archives crew + jane prentiss also appear, lots of canon-typical stuff really, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27145411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalEclipse/pseuds/EternalEclipse
Summary: In which Martin tries to win Jon's regard by poking his nose through every detail of the first Statement he's assigned, and meets Mike Crew just a month after the beginning of his tenure as an archival assistant.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Michael "Mike" Crew
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Undue Diligence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zykaben](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zykaben/gifts).



Martin raised his hand to knock at the door in front of him, before lowering it back to grasp at his chest. It felt like he had forgotten how to breathe. He certainly sounded like he was, rather rapidly at that, but his body cried out for air like he was six feet underwater and sinking.

No, he knew how this story went. One, and two, and three, and in; the door was sturdy against his skin, if slightly slick with humidity. Five, and six, and seven, and out; fresh raindrops hugged on the hand he pushed out from the overhang. One, and two, and three, and in; his world was only as narrow as he let it be. Five, and six, and seven, and out; this wasn’t how he was going to die.

Martin did take an extra moment before he committed to the human interaction that would follow ringing the bell. It was why he’d come, but being outside meant that he could be talking to anyone, and everything he did after would only make his report more specific. That was _good,_ it was his _job_ , but he couldn’t say that he was looking forward to it. When that hypothetical anyone became a someone, they would judge him, and when he failed to learn anything more, Jon would make _that_ face—

One, and two, and three, and in; maybe they wouldn’t be home, and he could come back later? Five, and six, and seven, and out; he shut his eyes against a burst of wind that threatened to dry them out and sweep him away. One, and two, and three, and in; the cold of the metal side rail was seeping through his damp sleeve. Five, and six, and seven, and out; the sound of the door, creaking open.

“Hello there,” a man called out at him. “What can I help you with?”

Martin snatched his arm away from the railing, and looked over at the man. He was short, even shorter than Jon probably, and nearly as skinny. His face didn’t look like one that laughed often, but the lips were turning up even as Martin looked, and that was somehow the most welcoming thing that Martin could imagine.

“Oh, uh, hello. I’m sorry for coming by unannounced, but I couldn’t find a working phone number for you. I’m Martin Blackwood, from the Magnus Institute. Could I ask you a few questions?”

“Sounds about right, phones aren’t really my thing. If you want, you can come in. You look like you could use a breather, and maybe we’ll get to your questions.”

“Thanks.” Martin followed him in. A cursory glance around the flat showed nothing unusual, except that the man was tidy for a bachelor living alone. Then again, Martin was one to talk—he still cleaned like his mother was going to shout at him for it, and this wasn’t quite that level. More lived in, maybe. The bookcase in the corner was probably the most eye-catching thing in the room, filled with tomes that looked more like they belonged in some temperature controlled library storage, not the pulp paperbacks that would have been on his own. His feet had half a mind to wander over there and look, but his anxiety overpowered his curiosity.

That, and his danger-sense had begun to ring in his ears. At least he was pretty sure it wasn’t just more anxiety.

“Here, sit down, sit down,” Mike gestured at a wooden chair. “There’s no reason we can’t be comfortable for this. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Martin sat, shoulders locked forward with tension. “Oh, I couldn’t impose on you like that, but thank you?”

Mike shrugged. “I was going to make one myself, it’s not an imposition.”

“Ah—thank you, in that case.”

“Do you want milk?”

“Honey, if you have it? I don’t—I’m lactose intolerant is all, I’m sorry, that’s oversharing, but thank you for asking?”

Mike cracked a smile, and Martin made himself relax at the sight. He hadn’t horrifically screwed it up yet then, had he? “I have honey, and a blend that should go well with it. It should make for a nice change of pace for me.”

Martin held in another round of verbal spewage by the edges of his toes and the creeping sense of impending doom he was still getting off of that bookcase. Instead, he watched as Mike pulled out two mugs and went about the usual business of teamaking, adding milk and honey to one cup and just honey to the other, and bringing them over to where Martin was already sitting.

The warmth of the cup in his hands set him that much more at ease. The corners of his shoulders eased down as Mike took a sip of his and Martin followed.

“So, you said you had some questions for me?”

“Ah, yes.” Martin set down the tea to grab at his bag. At the top was his notebook, with a list of follow up questions neatly written out in Jon’s handwriting. “Sorry again for the trouble. I’m from the Magnus Institute?”

“Yeah, you said. I hadn’t heard that they’d found a new Archivist yet.”

Martin coughed. “Oh, no, I’m not—I’m just an archival assistant. I’m definitely not qualified to be the head archivist. If you want to talk to Jon though, I can probably set something up? I mean, it’s only been a month, but I’m sure he’d be able to help you more than I can, if you need to make a statement or something. You, ah, know us?”

Something Martin couldn’t read past over Mike’s face quicker than a commercial airplane at cruising speed. “I read about Gertrude Robinson’s death in the news. A mystery in the house of mysteries and all that. Sorry, I don’t know if you knew her. Nasty business, I’m sure. Always is, with the job description.”

“I didn’t.” Martin gripped his notebook tighter as the words swirled in front of him. For a moment, his anxiety spiked and he closed his eyes against the vertigo that suddenly overtook his senses.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me. Truce. I promise. Now, you said you had some questions?”

Martin exhaled, and the vertigo receded. He took another sip of tea on autopilot. For a moment he considered just leaving. This was somehow more uncomfortable than his last three job interviews combined. But then he imagined the pinpoint weight of Jon’s disgust and disappointment on Monday, and did not move. Surely, he could handle a few questions first, just enough that he would probably have a job after this? “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind? We came across a Statement from a friend of yours, Dominic Swain? Do you remember him?”

Mike took a moment, opening his mouth and closing it, before smiling again and replying, “Yes, I recognize the name, although it’s been a while. What has Dominic gotten himself into?”

“Oh! Well, there was a book, called _Ex Altiora_? He came across it a few years ago. His Statement about it is a bit strange though, so we were following up on it. Do you know what Mr. Swain has been up to? In the last few years?”

“We haven’t really kept up, I’m afraid. We were friends as kids, but we had different ambitions, and I haven’t spent much time with him since I went to Uni and he didn’t.”

“Ah.” Martin felt suddenly very sympathetic to Dominic Swain. He knew what that felt like.

“Did he mention me specifically, then?”

The question reminded Martin to check his list. “Yes, he did, but only in passing, I think. Something about the book reminded him of you, or something? Anyway, I think we were mostly looking for a reference about his character, and if he’d done anything odd or changed significantly after the event.”

“Does he still have the book? Or do you?”

Question, meet Kevlar vest under a silk shirt. “No, I don’t think so. Have you heard of it?”

Mike hummed and took a sip of his tea. Martin followed, only to find that his cup was about empty, and the dregs were oversweet with undermixed honey. He grimaced, powering through them anyway.

“Would you like another cup?”

“No, thank you, that was quite nice.”

“As you wish. Ah, where were we? Dominic? Well, I can say that when I knew him, he’d always been a bit stubborn, and maybe a little incautious, but he’s got an eye for detail and always seemed well enough in the head. A shame about the book though.”

“Yes,” Martin agreed, for lack of better words to say. Mike was looking at him like he saw all of him, and it was setting him off. The world swam again, dizziness overtaking his ability to breathe normally. He tried to focus on his notebook, but that didn’t help much when he couldn’t breathe. Oh, no, not now. One, and two, and three, and four—Mike Crew’s hand was on his shoulder. Martin blinked. When had that gotten there?

“Mr. Blackwood, are you quite alright?”

Martin clutched onto the dregs of his professionalism, if they still existed after all this breaking down in someone’s house he’s meant to be interviewing. “I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“I think we can call this here for today? I can give you my phone number, and you can call if you have any more questions. You seem like an interesting person, and the world is vast. Best not to lose touch, just in case.”

“Alright then—thanks again.”

And so, with a bit more stuttering, Martin found himself bundled out of the flat, and into a cab Mike had seen fit to call him. He rather thought that Mike might have paid his fare if he hadn’t explained that he planned on expensing it to his job, because he was here for an interview. Mike’s face did something interesting at that, and he’d told Martin to let him know if there was any trouble.

Silly request, really. There was always trouble. But Martin was already feeling a little better by the time he walked into his own front door. Maybe it had been the books with the weird vibe? Or maybe he was just having a bad anxiety day. No way to tell, just time to go make himself a good meal and pretend the world didn’t exist for a few hours with some TV. He definitely didn’t feel like reading.

* * *

Work after the first time Martin met Mike Crew was fine. Jon acknowledged his effort and disparaged the lack of new information in the same breath, but at least he was looking at Martin now. He gave him more of the follow ups too, like he’d passed some sort of test. He supposed the training meant he wasn’t being fired, which was a relief. It also meant that Jon was _looking_ at him, even if it was with disappointment most of the time.

Things began to settle as the weeks passed. For all that Jon was a skeptic, Tim was certain that the spooky Statements that didn’t work with their laptops were real. If it were just Tim, Martin would write it off—of the three of them, Tim believed the most in the supernatural, even if he kept it low-key. Sasha, he knew, believed in some things, having survived Artefact Storage for as long as she had. Martin supposed he did too, at that—Artefact Storage would make a believer out of the world’s most bad faith skeptic, if it didn’t kill them first. Plus, he’d come across a few strange books when he’d worked in the library—but not to the same extent as Tim. Books were one thing, the homeless man raving about hunting vampires was another. Supernatural artefacts or no, he was pretty sure that vampires were movie magic only, and none of the myths had anything about them being telepathic so far as he knew.

It took three months for Mike Crew to turn up in another spooky Statement, this one also about a spooky book called _The Boneturner’s Tale_. Martin’s brow had furrowed with worry at the discovery. Even Jon believed in the spooky Leitner books, much as he knew he hated the word “spooky”, and Mike had appeared in both the statements they’d found about them, even if he hadn’t ever featured.

Jon hadn’t seemed to register the repeat as anything important, if he registered it at all. He had put Sasha and Tim onto finding various records about Jared Hopworth, Tim to tease out anything the police had about the library incident, and Sasha to find him in the present.

Martin had been assigned to find Adekoya, the statement giver. He wasn’t sure if Jon knew somehow that that was the easy straw, but it didn’t take overlong for him to discover that Adekoya had been killed in 2006 in what had been ruled a hit and run, nearly seven years after he’d given his Statement. That long after, especially given Hopworth’s impulsive nature, seemed as much a coincidence as it was a dead end. Jon didn’t seem to agree on the first, but he did give in on the second. If it wasn’t natural, then they didn’t have enough information to prove how not.

Privately, Martin wondered why Jon seemed to be taking this statement so personally. It was hardly the first where the statement giver had died, and this one at least seemed fairly natural, which was more than some others could say. He doubted Jon would tell him.

Still, he could make himself useful. He still had Mike Crew’s contact information. If the book was the culprit, and Mike had had it, then maybe he knew enough to satisfy Jon and to say if it really could have killed Adekoya.

And so, Martin once again found himself looking to be let into Mike’s flat. The least he could say was that the weather had warmed considerably, for all that it was still rainy as ever. It had been at least five days since the sun had last shone, and Martin was beginning to miss it.

Mike looked comfortable in his own skin, gesturing at where Martin had left his shoes and umbrella the last time he’d been there. A quick glance at the other umbrella laying against the wall showed that it was dry, though the boots his shoes went next to were very wet, even muddy. He must have caught a sweet spot in the weather earlier, the lucky man. Martin was pretty sure he wasn’t pulling off ‘drowned rat’ half as well as Jon did, or even Tim. Or as Mike would, at that.

“Would you like a towel?” Mike broke into his thoughts.

Martin managed a smile for him. He really was considerate. “If that isn’t a problem, I wouldn’t want to drip all over your house. Sorry again, for the mess.”

“No apologies necessary. I live in London too, you know.” Mike turned away, presumably towards the linen closet, and Martin began to worry his lower lip between his teeth.

He almost didn’t want to ask now. Mike just seemed so normal, like the friend Martin had always imagined for himself staring up at his ceiling at night but never actually managed to keep. Maybe he could have that. Then again, though he’d taken the job at the Institute for the money and stability it offered, he wouldn’t have been promoted into the Archives if he wasn’t a little too curious for his own good. His instincts were telling him that Mike was involved in something interesting, and he had a few questions he could start with. He breathed deeply, hoped that Mike would still want to talk to him after this, and snuck a look at the lean muscle on Mike’s arms and the way his scar cradled the rest just in case he didn’t.

He thought that Mike was just going to give him the towel when he returned, but no, Mike pressed it against the back of his neck and shoulders first, kneading gently for a moment before receding. Martin tamped down on a blush.

The towel stayed wound over his shoulders as Mike went for tea fixings, and Martin wiped his face with a dry corner as he watched Mike putter about. It was about that point that Martin also became aware of the weird books again. He hadn’t been paying so much attention the last time, but now it seemed like too much a coincidence. But he didn’t want to be rude, did he? Shouldn’t he ask Mike about them? What if he was being drawn to a Leitner? Did Mike know how dangerous they were?

A more mundane sort of anxiety wound its way through Martin as Mike poured the now-steaming water.

The warmth of the mug on his freezing hands was quite nice. Martin let out a satisfied noise as his hands stopped hurting. “This is really nice, thank you.”

He spotted the pleased look on Mike’s face. “Grand. You’re quite welcome.”

They both spent several minutes drinking their tea, but finally Martin felt like he had to speak up. “Not that I’m not grateful, but I did come with a specific reason for all of this. More weird official Institute stuff, sorry.”

“It’s not a problem. What’s happened?”

Martin forced himself to meet Mike’s eyes. They were brown, with a smidgeon of dark green by the pupil, and Martin had never thought that “falling into someone’s eyes” was anything more than a euphemism, and yet. Nope. He looked away, and studied his face instead. “Have you ever heard of Jurgen Leitner?” He asked. “Or, specifically, books with engraved plates on the inside, saying that they’re from the library of Jurgen Leitner?”

Mike frowned, but didn’t respond.

“Well, you’ve handled at least one of his books before. Do you remember having a book titled _The Boneturner’s Tale_ , in 1999 or so? From Chiswick Library, maybe?”

“I took a lot of books out from public libraries in the ‘90s. But yeah, maybe. Why?”

“Did anything strange happen when you had it?”

“Did someone make a statement about it at your Institute?” Mike countered.

“Yes, a former librarian. Well, circulation assistant probably, I don’t believe that Mr. Adekoya had a degree in Library Science. It apparently made a mess out of their returns cart before it was stolen.”

“Stolen, you say? Anyone I should keep an eye out for?”

_Mike believed there was something to the book_. That was…good, probably, even if it begged the question as to why he’d had it, and why he’d tried to return it. Martin glanced back at the probably-spooky bookcase, and Mike didn’t say anything else, just watching him.

“Someone named Jared Hopworth,” Martin conceded. “I don’t know much of anything about him though. And that was years ago, someone else could have found the book by now.”

“Of course. Thanks for telling me, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” Martin admitted, now completely unable to look at Mike’s face.

“Was there anything else?” Mike asked gently, after several moments had passed.

“Did you make a statement about having that book?”

“No. We might be closer to your lot than some, but it wasn’t important enough for something like that. If you end up needing it, let me know, but I don’t think you will.”

“Sure.” _Needing it?_ But Martin didn’t ask. Couldn’t work up the gumption. Jon would shake him if he knew.

From there, the conversation moved onto lighter topics for some time. They ended up ordering Chinese delivery, and it was many more hours indeed before Martin ended up leaving. Mike had alluded to believing in the supernatural a few more times, mostly when Martin brought it up, but at the same time hadn’t seemed to be fanatic or weird about it. Definitely a point in his favor.

But it was also nice to just have a friend who wasn’t also working with him. It was freeing. Mike didn’t really make him feel like the world was any less of a huge menace of a place, but he did give something solid in all of that, and Martin appreciated it more than he could say.

He did hope that they would do dinner again at some point. Hopefully, Mike would turn up in another statement soon.

* * *

Of course, that was about when it all went to shit. There was a statement involving meat in ways that rather turned Martin’s stomach, and another one about a man of the cloth with all sorts of mess going on. The cannibalism is what did it for him. He was considering becoming a vegetarian who ate fish after all of this, because it was just too much. So, lucky him, he thought, than the alternative was the weird spiders guy. Spiders freaked Tim out more than cannibalism, and there were more people to talk to in the Father’s case than either of the others, so they were both happy enough with what they were doing. Sasha, of course, was not best pleased to be researching the meat statement, but she’d live.

He had genuinely thought he wouldn’t.

And yeah, Martin was glad that Jon was taking what happened to him seriously. He didn’t have to, even if it was probably life-threatening danger they were all now in, and there were probably all sorts of risks and liabilities associated with housing a staff member full time, even if it was probably off the books. But even armed with his corkscrew and a mini fire extinguisher that fit in his backpack, it was hard to feel secure.

And so, Martin had found himself once again on Mike Crew’s doorstep. The Institute had some records of Prentiss, enough to know that she was a legitimate threat, but not enough for him to know what was really going on with her or how to deal with it. Living in fear wasn’t a long-term solution. Mike had at least alluded to some supernatural knowledge, and they’d been texting. It was a long shot, but—

“Martin! I’m glad you’re feeling better. Come in, make yourself at home.” Mike greeted him at the door.

Martin just sighed. “You were getting texts too?”

“Too?”

Mike pulled the door wider, and Martin took the hint and came in. Mike’s home was just the same as when he was there last, minus a few dishes in the drying rack and a different stack of library books on one corner of the spooky bookcase. It was comforting. Martin hoped he could trust that.

“You do believe in the supernatural, right? Or at least the books?”

“Mmm. Would you like cup of tea, before we start?”

“Oh! Please.”

Martin settled in on the seat he’d used on his other visits, and carefully ignored the bookcase in favor of his hands. There were a few small cuts scabbing over from where he’d cut himself on cans in the dark, or stabbed himself by picking up the wrong end of the corkscrew, or accidentally dropped his archives mug because the light was wonky and he thought he’d seen a worm in it, or just been generally clumsy. He should probably bandage them up, lest they get infected.

Mike plunked down the tea. “You look like you’re thinking heavy thoughts there.”

That earned a snort. Then the snort turned into a chuckle, which eased into outright laughter, the kind that had tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. Martin caught himself before it turned into sobbing. He was not going to be quite that much of a mess in the home of someone he didn’t know and trust a whole lot more than he did Mike Crew. And yet. He didn’t really have anyone else, did he? Hell take him, that was depressing.

It all came out in a rush. “I just spent two weeks being trapped in my flat by Jane Prentiss, and I have no idea how I haven’t been eaten by worms by now.”

“That sounds like a tough time,” Mike says like he means it. Martin looks up to catch his eyes, and feels himself falling into them.

“That’s really not hyperbole.”

“I figure. Is she following you? I’d rather you not bring a flesh hive unto my doorstep. Corruption’s not really my thing.”

“No. Not as much as I can tell, anyway. She told Jon that she’d had her fun—wait. You know _what she is?”_

“Not like she makes much of an effort to hide it, right? I heard she got an entire hospital wing closed the last time she found herself in one.” Mike shrugged. “That was pretty obvious if you know anything about where to look.”

Martin just breathed for a second, and then started counting to make sure they were even. “What about you, then? Are you like her too?” And why did that feel like such a betrayal? Why did he want the guy to like him, even now, even if he was going to come after Martin for asking.

“No.” Mike said, but his casual tone barely set Martin’s hackles back down. “Corruption wasn’t for me. The first time I came across it—well, I don’t need to tell you that the supernatural isn’t generally all that kind. Corruption is greedy and impulsive, and it always takes beyond what you’re willing to give even if you’re willing to give everything. I’m not the type, and I don’t think you are either.”

“Why are you even telling me this?”

“You deserve to know, I guess. It’s not like you can be uninvolved either, and I’ve never really understood how the people who feed off of knowing things keep the rest of you working with them so ignorant. You seem like a good enough person, but that won’t save you.”

Martin was starting to get a bit fed up. The more Mike monologued at him, the more his anger was winning out against his fear. He didn’t want to actually follow through on clocking Mike in the face, just in case of whatever not-worms was his thing, but he could dream.

Mike considered him a moment longer before coming to some kind of conclusion and making for the spooky bookshelf. Martin couldn’t help his wariness when Mike came up with a barely-worn pamphlet that read, _Don’t Fall For It!_ on the cover. He didn’t reach out to touch it, his instincts going haywire, and after a moment Mike set it down near him, smiling like Martin had done something interesting. Perhaps he had. Who was to say.

“Good instincts, but I like you. You haven’t pried past what your job asked for, and the Eye’s never been very good at protecting its own. Read the book, and let me know if you have any questions then.”

“The Eye?” Martin asked. But at that moment, the back of his hand brushed the book, and he had the sensation of being on a roller coaster many times faster than the few carnival rides he’d been on, and going straight up. There was too much gravity for him to meaningfully move. He’d pulled his hand away as if it’d burned, sideways because up was too difficult, but it still took several long heartbeats before he felt like he could breathe again.

Mike took back the book. “Sorry, forgot it did that.”

“ _Forgot?_ How’re you—are you sure you’re not like Prentiss?”

Mike smiled, amiable as usual for all that it didn’t clock to Martin as particularly warm. “I can be dangerous in my own right if I need to be. But no, you don’t have anything to fear from me, I don’t think.”

“Right.” The pieces were right there, but Martin had never felt more out of his depth. “Will you please explain it to me, then? Whatever that pamphlet was supposed to say? I would really appreciate it.”

“Thank you for asking so nicely. Yes, I think I will.”

* * *

Martin had gone back to the Institute after that, head swimming with fear, and, despite Mike’s best warnings, curiosity. He bought a cheap notebook at the nearest Poundland and started by transcribing what he’d learned as well as he could remember, before marking out different pages for things regarding different entities and started going back through the old statements.

Would it be more polite to fear as he read, to feed them all in turn? Maybe, but it was probably safer to treat it more like fairytales and other stories told to children, where the point from the adult point of view was to suss out the lessons and not the bits that evoked emotional responses. And even then, it was interesting how so many emotions played into it all, not just the fear that characterized the ‘entities’.

About four-fifths of the Statements they’d decided were real fell neatly into categories, although the last fifth muddled things. Martin had had a lot of time to think on these since he was in the Institute all of the time and had free reign even when no one was there. He’d even found the time to pester Tim for some of Smirke’s works. A small pile of former library books appeared by the cot the next day—Tim was apparently eager for someone to talk to about him, and Martin was happy to be wanted. Some of it was even useful.

And, as a week passed, and another, Martin kept touch with Mike. The man had gotten a phone at some point, swankier than he’d expected for a man who lived like Mike lived, and Martin was sure he was one of the only people who had the number. They talked about the supernatural, sure, but also about what radio program Mike was listening to that week, and what books Martin had pestered out of Tim or Sasha, or even occasionally the local arts scene. It was nice. His latest poems mused on the ironies of ‘falling for’ a man who dealt in heights, though after what he’d learned about the Eye he did not commit them to tape recorder. Mike had suggested that, since it was hard to guess how dangerous it’d be, and there would be time later if Prentiss didn’t kill him first. Besides, paper had its own charm. He’d taken up a bit of light calligraphy to help make it more interesting.

The curiosity started wearing down to levels where he felt like he could stop if he wanted a week after he stopped using the recorders. That was enough for him. A full month of living in the Archives took away a lot of the novelty as well. There were Statements, and worms, and stress, and many more statements, and more worms, and, if he was lucky, a bit of sun when he could get away with it.

Then, of course, Martin’s galaxy of scattered musings suddenly discovered gravity when he overheard the Statement Sasha gave Jon about another supernatural being, one who was more like Prentiss than Mike for all that they’d helped her. Stranger, or Spiral maybe. Identity tied into fear in weird ways, and it’d become clear that they all overlapped. Not that that theory helped in the presence of a real paragon of the wacky and weird.

At least his new and improved first aid kit had proven useful.

And so, four and a half weeks after Martin’s worldview had been shattered, he found himself sitting across from Mike at a café five kilometers away from the Institute. Mike hadn’t wanted to come too close, and Martin was still jumpy with how many worms had been around, so it had been an easy compromise.

Not being next to Mike’s creepy supernatural bookcase was a mighty plus.

The café full enough that there was a low hubbub that promised privacy, but not so full that they couldn’t get a table without neighbors. Mike had beaten him there, and Martin had just barely settled in when the tea appeared. He ordered egg toast and sausage quickly enough he had to slow down and repeat it, not liking the way it felt like the waiter was seeing through him.

Mike too seemed careful to not set him off, which was only setting off more alarm bells. He was still pleasant as ever, but even that consideration felt weird. If Martin hadn’t been sure that Mike wasn’t in it deep with one or another of the Entities, he’d be sure now. The only question was which.

Still, he held it in until the food was ready, which didn’t take too long and didn’t seem to be causing any problems. Mike let him set the tone. He was being considerate. That meant something, he was sure.

“My coworker at the Institute came across another fear person today,” Martin began. When Mike just made an interested noise, Martin filled him in on the details he’d heard, and then when Mike kept waiting added in his own theories. He wasn’t sure what response he was looking for, but it wasn’t—

“Is this, now, you looking for this Michael, but being smarter and taking backup?”

That tone was somewhere between amusement and gently sarcastic self-depreciation, and Martin was not here for it. It felt too much like his own thoughts. “No. I don’t want to meet him, I think. He sounds dangerous, and curiosity is dangerous, and even though it’s not like there’s anything really safe I might as well not set out to die pointlessly.”

Martin meant it as a barb, but it earned him a genuine smile. “I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself. Have you been able to leave the Institute?”

“No. I think I want to, but when I tried, I couldn’t.”

“Damn. Well, you’re involved then, congratulations. No getting out of the nonsense now.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Mike’s face twisted with a confusion Martin didn’t understand, and he touched his neck, which Martin knew to house his lightning scar underneath the mildly unseasonable scarf. “I think so. S’not like I asked to be out in lightning, even if I hadn’t been smart enough to go indoors when it was storming. I did choose it in the end though. That’s the trick. You’re involved, but not so involved that you can’t choose your poison. Probably. That’s how it worked for me, anyway.”

“So when you said Corruption wasn’t for you—oh.” The books. The freaky books everyone knew were real, that Mike had a pile of in a corner. Martin was an idiot.

“I could help you, you know. If you want away from the Eye, I could find you something that fits better. That one doesn’t protect its own. You deserve better.”

He doubted that. As much as he preferred being an anonymous face in a crowd, it was hard enough to get a job in a local chippy without anyone to ease the way, let alone somewhere respectable enough for his mother. It had felt like fate when the Magnus Institute had hired him, and maybe he would have to grieve the loss, just a bit, even if it might be the Institute that killed him.

Mike’s face eased back into a careful neutrality, and Martin felt like he’d done something wrong. But all Mike said was, “Stay safe. You know where to find me.” He dug out enough money to cover his half of the meal and a nice tip, and was away before Martin could figure out what to say.

* * *

Martin kept texting Mike, although Mike didn’t respond more than he had to to be polite. Still, with the threat of Prentiss, Martin felt like he’s obligated to at least let Mike know that he was still amongst the uncolonized living. For a given value of uncolonized, he’d joked—they did live on the British Isles, after all. It’d almost be fitting, if it weren’t terrifying. He didn’t think it was any funnier on the other end, but it had at least gotten him a smiley emoji.

Martin also considered telling his coworkers what he knew, and then reconsidered how not to sound crazy about it. He first tried to make something of Tim’s convenient interest in Robert Smirke, which seemed all the more strange now that Martin knew that the man had created the taxonomy for the fear entities used in the western world for the last couple hundred years. Tim was rather more focused on his architecture, but perhaps…

It worked, a little. He’d gotten Sasha and Tim to adopt Smirke’s taxonomy for classifying the statements, at least as a trial. Jon hadn’t seemed all that impressed, but Martin thought he saw him with one of the sheets explaining how the classifications all worked. Time would tell if it helped at all. If all went well, he wasn’t going to be there to see it.

He’d decided after he saw Jon talk to that podcaster, and derided her Statement even though Martin was pretty sure it was a real one. He’d offered her tea after, but she’d just glowered at him as she pushed past, half his size but with three times his presence. He couldn’t blame her, even as much as he itched to defend Jon. He liked Jon. He wanted Jon to be better than he was. It was just—in a world where the supernatural was real, and people were coming specifically to them with their stories, Jon was in a position to do a lot of good for a lot of people. And he wasn’t. _Deliberately._ Because he didn’t want to seem anything less than primly academic.

Still, no reason to rush, yet. The Archives was still the place Martin was safest from Prentiss’s worms, and he had let his flat lease lapse. He didn’t think he’d want to live there anymore even if he survived this. Lacking other options, Martin kept staying on the old cot in Artefact Storage (though a foam mattress topper and some new sheets had appeared on it during one work day, so it was much more comfortable now) and figuring things out by night.

A week passed this way, and then a month. An assortment of fire extinguishers had popped up, and there was at least one within reach now no matter where you were in the Archives. Martin had also added corkscrews and spare torches to their essential supplies, no matter how the rest of them felt about it.

And then Jane Prentiss’s Statement turned up. Jon had looked positively peaky after reading it, and Martin had ushered him over to the cot. He’d feel embarrassed, but Jon fell into a deep nap as soon as he was horizontal. So Martin used the opportunity to take a peak at Prentiss’s words himself.

It was all strange. Dreamlike and out of touch, but surprisingly coherent for it. Martin could just about understand the desire for validation that seemed to be the root of her issues, and that scared the almost-living fluorescent light out of him. He hadn’t seen the sun in three days, he didn’t have anything more appropriate. Still, the worms were always there. What if he too decided to give in in a moment of weakness? What if he let something supernatural take him over too just because something was nice for once?

Martin wanted to talk to someone about it. He _had_ to. But who? Jon, as much as he imagined a good conversation, was more likely to scoff at his worries after checking to make sure he wasn’t physically colonized. Sasha might put in a request for him to be moved out of the Archives if she thought he wasn’t handling it well enough. Tim….he really wasn’t sure. Tim put on such a face for them all most of the time, and Martin didn’t know enough.

* * *

Weeks of living in fear, flinching at every stray hair to press against his neck just in case it was in fact silky legs. Weeks and weeks of sleeping on a barely-glorified in Document Storage, screwing up his back to the point where Martin had even asked Tim to help him work out the worst of the knots not once but twice. And that was not the treat it sounded, with all the innuendo Tim slipped in. On top of that was the way Jon got snippier as time went on, and Sasha and Tim even more dogged. And Martin was left behind now when he couldn’t keep up, a casualty to their collective efforts. It was almost like they didn’t care if they lived or died, because the mystery was too much.

No more. He was dialing Mike’s number as he stepped outside for the first time in long enough that he fancied he could feel his skin warming up from seconds in the sun. Actual sun—he’d picked a good time for it. Mike picked up just before the phone would have gone to voicemail.

Both ends of the line were silent except for breathing. Martin hadn’t really thought that Mike would pick up when he called randomly without notice. Sure there had been a lot of texting, and a lot of perfectly normal one-sided feelings that were not going to be helped with this latest, but he hardly knew Mike long enough for butting-in privileges. Or did he?

And yet—“Martin?”—here they were.

The words slid out easy as smoke from a fire. “You said I could come find you. I know it’s been a while, but is that offer still open?”

“Why now?”

“You told me that I deserved better. Maybe I just needed some time to believe it.”

“Do you want to come by my flat?” The smile in his voice was audible but not terrible or self-congratulatory. It could have been, since Martin had nowhere else to go, but it wasn’t.

The skies darkened, but every inch of pressure was that much weight off of his own shoulders. “Oh, okay, yes, sure, when would be a good time?”

“As soon as you like.”

Martin cast an eye between the sky, which would sob down on him without mercy, and the worms he could see squirming all about since he knew how to look. “Let me grab an umbrella first, and I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll stay on the line until you catch a cab,” Mike said, oddly intense. But Martin had called for help, so could he really say otherwise? He stuffed his phone in his pocket and hurried inside, nodding at Rosie as he passed by her to get to the stairs. He grabbed a can of fire extinguisher they’d taken to keeping in a corner on that level and hummed the tune to some catchy indie earworm—err. The better to ignore Prentiss’s song with.

It was strange that the Archives were empty when he got back down, but with the way the rest of them had been acting, it could have been anything and they were probably together and in one piece. He’d just about gotten to his desk and picked up his bag and umbrella when something twigged as wrong, somehow.

“MARTIN,” Sasha yelled. Martin had just enough time to see where she was and not fall when she barreled into him. And those were—right. Prentiss had stopped waiting, and the Archives had so many more cracks in the old walls than his tiny flat. He wrenched forward the handle of the extinguisher and fired forwards a path of squirming death.

Sasha wrestled them both out through the path he’d made just as he caught sight of what was left of Jane Prentiss. Her physicality looked well enough to pass on any street, but the look in her eyes—nope.

They ran for the stairs. Sasha pulled the first fire alarm she saw. A good call, that. Martin switched for a fresh extinguisher the first time he passed by somewhere he’d hidden one. Sasha took another, and they sprayed for worms as they went. Jon and Tim were still down there, so time was of the essence. The sooner someone with actual equipment to safeguard them all from the worms got there—oh, that was a bad idea, wasn’t it. Letting some member of the general public take on the likes of Jane Prentiss.

Self preservation, where art thou. Lying in a shallow roadside grave somewhere, along with his self-esteem, came the biting reply.

At least the hallways were mostly empty when they got back up to the main level, both breathing heavily. The noise seemed to be mostly coming from outdoors. Was that a siren? It was hard to tell over the still blaring fire alarm.

“Hello?” A voice echoed down the stairwell. They both looked up only to see Elias unhurriedly making his way down, as if there was nothing more wrong in the world than a cup of tea gone a few degrees too cool. “Oh, Sasha, Martin, do you know what is going on?”

“ _Do we know what is—_ come on, we need to get outside. All those parasitic worms we’ve been telling you about for months now? They’re attacking the Archives. Tim and Jon are still trapped down there, and we need to get ECDC or someone down there to get them out safely.” Sasha burst out, grabbing at Elias to pull him along.

Elias stepped back, not missing a beat. “You have a tape recorder, don’t you? Care to say that again for the tape?”

“You’re kidding,” Martin blurted. “Those are Jane Prentiss’s worms. They almost _killed_ us. You can’t care more about—about recording what’s happened already than saving their lives, can you?”

But Elias only just smiled blandly and gestured at the recorder Martin hadn’t noticed tucked against Sasha’s side. By the look on her face, it hadn’t really registered to her either. “I was on my way to help with this little issue, yes. But it’s still better that we record it. I’m sure Jon will want the tapes, after.”

“Fine,” she hissed. “Martin, get whoever’s out there and loaded for worm down to the Archives. Hopefully at least one of us gets something done.”

Martin glared at Elias. “Right.” Then he adjusted his grip on the extinguisher in his hands, and left.

There were no stragglers as Martin made for the doors, just the echoes of his shoes on the floor, the extinguisher against the wall he’d clipped, the squish of the occasional worm that found its way into his path. He didn’t think he’d gotten eaten by any, but there was no time to be sure. The outdoors wasn’t much better, merely trading what kind of siren was blaring in his ears, but sirens was a good thing and Martin sprinted over to where EMS was setting up. A fire engine was somewhere a block away, based on that noise.

Even in the crowd pressing on, Martin for once felt singled out, like he’d been marked out for something, and like flight was not an option. He grit his teeth and pressed on. It took several long minutes to get far enough into the crowd to find the actual responders preparing to go in.

“Sir, get back. You can’t be here.” One told him. “If you need to get checked out, the ambulance is over there.”

Martin ignored the pointing finger, instead taking in the uniforms of those pulling themselves together. The fire engine was getting in now as well, and their uniforms at least had better coverage. “I know what’s going on inside, and where the people trapped are,” he shouted back, over the din, and found himself being passed inside the loop over to the fire department.

They wouldn’t let him go inside again. They told him that as a civilian they legally couldn’t let him. Martin wasn’t sure if that was true, but he wasn’t a particularly strong guy for his size, and he wasn’t that brave. He’d gotten help but he didn’t want to risk worms any more than he already had. Even if he’d feel guilty for the rest of his life if one of his coworkers got eaten while he sat outside twiddling his thumbs.

After he’d explained to those going inside about the worms, and where they were, and where Jon and Tim were, he found himself getting passed off to make sure he wasn’t contaminated by any of the parasites. He had to force himself to unclench his hand from the fire extinguisher. The red indents on his skin would be gone within the hour, but for now he could press against his palms and feel where he’d held onto the thing.

He’d had to remove his clothes for decontamination just to be sure, and stumbled on his phone in his trouser pocket, still on. He’d paused and brought it up to his face.

“You’re still here,” Martin realized in real time.

Mike chuckled. “I called 999 for you as soon as I realized what was going on. Normal EMS wouldn’t be ready for Prentiss.”

“Thanks. Really. Thank you.” Tears prickled at the corner of Martin’s eyes. It had been a really close call, hadn’t it?

“Of course. Are you cleared to go yet?”

“No, uh.” The person who was meant to be checking him over was slowly raising an eyebrow. It threatened to leap off his face if Martin didn’t finish quickly enough. “Do you want to stay on the line, or should I call you back when I’m done?”

“Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

“My coworkers are still inside. I’ll probably wait for them once I’m clear. But I’d like to hear your voice, after?”

“That’s fine.”

Martin smiled a little as he turned the phone face down onto the heap of his shirt, and wriggled out of his trousers. There were a couple of small holes in his left calf, but after an unpleasant few minutes of pain and tweezers and topical medicines, it was deemed that he was probably fine, did not need stitches, and was given a number to schedule a follow-on appointment to make sure that the worms hadn’t been carrying anything. The ones that had been pulled out of him would be sent to a lab, he was told. If they’d said which, he couldn’t have said.

Elias was the first one out of the building, looking just as unruffled as Martin had last seen him. He wanted to go over to the man, ask where Sasha was that she hadn’t been with him, wring his neck if necessary to get the information. He wouldn’t get the chance.

He listened to Mike’s breathing as he paced, waiting for any further news. Finally, minutes later, Jon and Tim were being carried out, and placed on stretchers as soon as they were clear of the building. Martin thought they were alive, but he couldn’t have said anything about their status. Sasha was last, accompanied by a pair of firefighters, stumbling occasionally but pausing in the fresh air like she hadn’t been able to breathe. Martin couldn’t talk to her either, before she too was whisked away for treatment in yet another area. It was only at that point that he clocked how many more emergency vehicles had appeared. The sirens all sounded the same after a while.

* * *

And that there might have been the end of it. Jon, Tim, and Sasha were being kept for further treatment, and many of the cleared staff began making their ways home when the end of the usual workday came and went and it became clear that this was not going to be a quick in and out. Martin hadn’t been able to catch Elias before he disappeared either, but that seemed less important once everyone was safe.

The fact of the matter was, he was exhausted. The adrenaline, and stress, and worms, and everything of the last few months all at once was too much. By the time everyone was cleared, the brain fog had set in far enough that Martin had had to hand his phone to the cabbie he’d finally hailed down for Mike to give directions to his area. It was going to be an expensive trip, but Martin definitely wasn’t in shape to deal with the Tube.

He didn’t remember the taxi ride. He had no clear recollection of paying for the trip—Mike had taken care of it, he guessed. He’d have to repay him later, or at least thank him. He did manage to shower with Mike’s things, although he’d had to wait for Mike to wash his clothes. He didn’t have anything else to wear at present, and Mike was short and thin. Martin was neither of those, and even trying Mike’s clothes would have just made him feel badly about himself if he’d been self-aware enough at that moment for body image issues.

He’d slept like the almost-dead, waking briefly when Mike left the flat at some point, and again when he returned with crinkling shopping bags, though he didn’t stay awake long enough that night to ask what he’d gone for. In the morning he’d learned that Mike had taken down his sizes while he’d washed his clothes and gotten him an extra set or two so he didn’t have to keep wearing the same ones. He’d also gotten some wound care things to help with his formerly wormy leg. Martin could have kissed him.

Martin had felt like a burden, even if he had to deal with it because he had nowhere else to go. Mike kept telling him it was fine, but someone as polite as Mike wouldn’t say anything if it wasn’t, would he?

At the very least, Martin had needed to retrieve what he could of his things from the Archives once the extermination team had been by. He’d told Mike not to come with him, and set out. And that’s when disaster struck.

Martin had never had all that many things. The flat he’d moved into after he joined the Institute was the largest place he’d ever called his own, and it had been a rather cramped studio that didn’t even have the space for a full fridge/freezer unit. He’d taken his necessities, but only those, and there had barely been space for those in the Archives. It was really a work place more than anything else. If anything, he was lucky they’d lasted this long.

He had planned to take the Tube back to the general vicinity of Mike’s, because even with the boxes in tow he thought he could manage it and didn’t want to have to pay more expensive fare. All things considered, he was likely to be out of a job again soon, and finding a new one would be interesting as ever he was sure.

Though the Institute was mostly empty, Martin was sure he could feel someone watching him as he left, boxes piled three high in his arms. Or was it some _thing?_ Martin thought it was a person, but did he really know well enough to tell in a case like this? If it wasn’t a person, he would probably be fine as soon as he left the Institute. If it were…well, he couldn’t bring trouble back to Mike, could he? He didn’t want to be such a terrible guest.

He walked to the nearest station. It wouldn’t take him where he wanted to go, but he also didn’t want to carry the boxes too far, and having his arms free would significantly help him if whatever was watching made a move. It hadn’t so far, but it also hadn’t disappeared.

Fine. He kept on. Tried a couple circles, spent two hours and enough money that he wished he’d just taken the cab trying to lose the tag. Every time he thought he had, it popped up again. Definitely supernatural.

He called Mike. What else was he to do, he wasn’t an expert? He barely knew how to tell the story, or if there was one to tell.

When he finally finished his recount to Mike, he responded, “Come back. I’ll handle it.”

“Are you sure?” Martin twisted loose a piece of thread from the edge of his shirt. “I don’t want to put you into a bad position for my sake. I can handle it.”

“I’m sure, but you’re not. Putting me in a bad position. I told you you’d be fine, so I’m going to have a little chat with whoever’s spying on you. Real friendly-like, you can even sit in if that’s what you’d prefer.

“Sure.” Martin peeked out as the sense of being Seen increased yet again. He’d been found. “I’ll be home in thirty. If they’re going to follow me, the least they can do is help with these heavy boxes.”

What would have been an easy trip with no boxes quickly turned into a 5 book epic poem. It had been at least twice as long as expected by the time Martin pressed his way in, still with someone following. He brushed past where Mike was standing at the door, watching out. He’d just set down his load when Mike called outside. “Aren’t you going to come in?” And when Martin looked over, it was Jon at the door.

He looked…bad. Martin hadn’t quite seen when he’d left, but the way Jon was lousy with bandages, even across bits of his face, spoke ill. Any question of why Jon hadn’t offered to help him move instead miscarried.

“Jon? Why are you here”

Jon wheezed, and stumbed across the doorway. Martin sprang up to guide him over to a chair. A glance in Mike’s direction showed a bland politeness Martin recalled from the beginning of their interactions, and that made sense, all things considered—he’d gathered that Mike was a fairly private person, even if he’d decided to be Martin’s friend. Jon bursting in wouldn’t leave the best impression.

“Martin. I’m sorry, I just—I know you were staying in the Archives, but we realized that with the worms and the exterminators that you might not have anywhere else to go.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Tim’s still in the hospital, and Sasha’s house rules means she can’t have any long-term guests, so I was going to offer you space.”

_Even though you think I’m a waste of it?_ Martin thought, but could not commit to words. Instead, he sent Mike a speaking look, even if he really wasn’t sure what the words were.

“Thank you for checking, but we are pretty set here.” Mike said. “Was there anything else?”

“Of course. Well, I was also wondering what your plans were for going back to the Archives. I know we’ve got medical leave, and they have to be cleared first, but I need to make plans.”

“And this couldn’t wait until you stopped looking like a slasher horror extra?” Martin said aloud, and immediately regretted it. Jon looked down at his hands like he hadn’t realized what he looked like. And Mike had a tiny quirk to his face like he was hiding a smile. Right then, Martin was sure of his path. “And I’m not coming back.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m going to find some way to actually hand in my resignation, even if I have to gouge out my own eyes, because that would be better than whatever follows nearly getting eaten by sentient worms looking to mingle.”

Martin looked between Jon, who was sitting so rigidly that a strong breeze would knock him down, and Mike, who was watching with a level of detatchment Martin knew to expect and a tiny glimmer that might have been pride, and he knew it was no contest. Even if Jon’s well-intentioned stalking hadn’t been creepy, it had finally occurred to Martin that he could choose the one who prioritized his wellbeing.

“If that’s what you want…”

“It is.”

“Then I’ll watch for that letter.”

“And you’ll be giving a fantastic reference,” Mike cut in.

“Yes. Right. Of course.”

“Good. Then we’ll overlook the stalking, just this once. I’m sure you couldn’t help it. Now, if you could leave Martin and I to the unpacking?”

“Okay. Err—congratulations, to the both of you.”

“Right.”

And then Jon was walking to the door. More like hobbling really, enough so that Martin didn’t think the stalking would have been a viable option if he hadn’t been weighted down by his possessions. He didn’t look back. Martin was glad. That part of his life was apparently over.

Martin grinned at Mike once Jon was gone. “Would you help me find a resignation plan?”

Mike smiled.

* * *

That really was the end of it. Faced with the alternative of being attacked because of the Institute without any ability to defend himself, Martin had decided to become an avatar instead. He’d gone through the list of entities and his reasonings again with Mike. He’d ruled most of them right out. Either they would ask for things he was not willing to give, or may interact badly with his current ties to the Eye, or he would be more food than friend. Of those few which remained, the End tended to be more of a ‘don’t talk to me, I’ll talk to you,’ which ruled it out. The Web was nearly as bad. He still moved the spiders that turned up occasionally carefully outside though. No need to anger them.

Now, the Vast _was_ partially Mike playing missionary despite his best attempts. There was the guidebook, but not the one that had brought Mike into the fold. He had offered a careful introduction to the Fairchilds, though he suggested that it was better to start the process before Martin met them.

It wasn’t as hard as he might have guessed. The trick was finding something that exhilarated him more that it terrified him, which also terrified many other people. It was only after Mike had explained the space project they’d gone in on that Martin really got it.

Losing yourself in too much space was easy alone against the black foreverness of space. It was also easy to do in a crowd, where you had too much in the same space and it seemed to stretch on forever, like you might never escape it. Like the world was too big for you. Martin liked crowds, because mobs couldn’t judge him on the things that mattered. That targeted knowing could also leave an outlet for his wee bit of Eyeness. Apparently that was important, and had something to do with fractals? He hadn’t quite gotten Mike’s fevered muttering at the thought.

Martin had looked up his coworkers while he was figuring all of that out. Sasha had texted him that she’d been cleared once the initial CO2 was dealt with, though she’d hit her head falling. Tim, she said, had been admitted to the hospital, and she hadn’t been able to find any records of him leaving it. He’d left off with an offer to explain to her what he knew of it all, and was still waiting for a response. He thought she’d take him up on it.

He’d sent the same message later to Jon as well. He had decided to live in ignorance, and Martin’s heart hurt for him. He’d learned from Mike that the worms would be the least of it, between his job title and Gertrude Robinson’s many enemies. Maybe Martin could help, but there was only so much he’d be able to do even with powers if he were to gain any.

Tim, he would find out, had been colonized by the worms. More food than friend until the chips were down and Prentiss was dead, apparently. Mike offered to kill him to prevent him from getting worse, and Martin surprised himself by seriously considering it.

He did end up having to explain himself to Simon Fairchild. More like the man showed up on their doorstep and with lunch and stories. It soon came out that Martin’s idea had seemed too much like the Lonely, until he’d explained it. He didn’t tell Simon that one of the perks he’d thought of was that even if he was going to have to live on fear, he could easily set himself up to never kill anyone. He thought that that had been noticed, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that.

He did leave that conversation with a promise of the Fairchilds’ support in finding employment, so it couldn’t have gone that badly.

It took almost the entire two weeks of their leave, but Martin had finally been able to write a formal resignation letter, but he finally did it. He’d never been so excited to leave a job before. He didn’t want to deliver the thing in person, so email would have to do.

If he was very lucky now, he might even get to make a meal of Elias Bouchard himself. As much as he wasn’t sure about the whole eating people’s fear business, that was a man who could do with feeling some. Wouldn’t that be nice.


End file.
